Janet Pluchinsky (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sorrowandsorrow) wrote2024-02-01 04:07 pm
sorrowandsorrow) wrote2024-02-01 04:07 pm
Entry tags:
Closed Post: The Three-Date Rule
Maybe it's some kind of character growth, or something, that Janet can admit to herself she's a little bit nervous. It's embarrassing, but it would be stupid to pretend otherwise. It's also bizarre, because she hasn't been nervous about a date since she was a first year at Brakebills and Sebastien from the five-zillion-generations-of-magic family asked her out. (He turned out to be a dick. Quelle surprise.)
Anyway. The point is, she's kind of nervous, because Susan is meeting her here in T-minus not that many minutes, and this is undeniably date number three, and Janet's not supposed to give a shit about how it goes, but she can also admit to herself that she really wants it to go well. She blow-dried her hair, for Christ's sake. That was the first blow-dryer she'd seen in years, but apparently the mansion could tell she needed one. She's still in jeans, but they're nice ones, dark wash and everything. Her blouse is wine-red and off the shoulder. Basically, she's taken the whole date night thing to heart.
She's in one of the nicer lounges, one with some atmospheric exposed brick and expensive-looking furniture. There's a bottle of what she's about ninety-seven percent sure is real Fillorian wine on the table in front of her, along with two clean and empty wineglasses. There are no words on the label of the bottle, but there is a sigil of two rams' heads, which makes her irritable and nostalgic at the exact same time. Her legs are crossed, ladylike as hell, and her boots are freshly polished.
[NSFW!]
Anyway. The point is, she's kind of nervous, because Susan is meeting her here in T-minus not that many minutes, and this is undeniably date number three, and Janet's not supposed to give a shit about how it goes, but she can also admit to herself that she really wants it to go well. She blow-dried her hair, for Christ's sake. That was the first blow-dryer she'd seen in years, but apparently the mansion could tell she needed one. She's still in jeans, but they're nice ones, dark wash and everything. Her blouse is wine-red and off the shoulder. Basically, she's taken the whole date night thing to heart.
She's in one of the nicer lounges, one with some atmospheric exposed brick and expensive-looking furniture. There's a bottle of what she's about ninety-seven percent sure is real Fillorian wine on the table in front of her, along with two clean and empty wineglasses. There are no words on the label of the bottle, but there is a sigil of two rams' heads, which makes her irritable and nostalgic at the exact same time. Her legs are crossed, ladylike as hell, and her boots are freshly polished.
[NSFW!]